Unbound
by Captainraychill
Summary: Hermione Granger finally decides to cut her long hair, but Draco Malfoy won't let her.
1. Chapter 1

**For the Dramione Duet 2013**

**Warnings: **Angst, rated for language and hints of sexuality

* * *

**UNBOUND - CHAPTER ONE**

**Winter 2014**

"_Rapunzel, Rapunzel,  
Let down your hair to me."_

_Rapunzel had magnificent long hair, fine as spun gold, and when she heard the voice of the enchantress, she unfastened her braided tresses, wound them round one of the hooks of the window above, and then the hair fell twenty ells down, and the enchantress climbed up by it. _

"Mum, what's an ell?" Rose Weasley mumbled.

"A unit of measurement, about six hand breadths or forty-five inches," Hermione answered.

"So, forty-five inches times twenty is…"

"Maths," Hugo groaned.

"Nine hundred inches," Hermione said. "Or twenty-five yards or almost twenty-three meters. However, fairy tales are too fanciful to use anything as logical and practical as the metric system. They must use _ells_."

"Good job, love," Ron whispered. "You've bored our kids to sleep."

Hermione glanced up from her childhood copy of _Grimm's Fairy Tales_. Her family lay upon a cozy, mahogany bed before the living room's crackling fireplace. This was their habit on cold, snowy nights - to snuggle together, drowsy under a warm pile of quilts, while Hermione read stories aloud. Rose, aged eight, hugged a ragged stuffed monkey named Willoughby. Hugo, aged seven, held Blue Bear. Both children were sleeping, the flickering shadows of their lashes long upon on their cheeks. With a lazy sweep of her wand, Hermione levitated her book to its place on a high shelf. Ron pulled her closer, and she moaned as their idle cuddle became an embrace of intent, a hot slide of flannel and skin.

"Hermione, Hermione, let down your hair to me," he murmured, unravelling her long, messy braid.

"Upstairs," she said between kisses. "To our tower, my prince."

Their life was perfect.

Four years later, Ron was dead.

* * *

**Autumn 2018**

When summer ended, Hermione didn't move the mahogany bed off the back porch. She sat in a comfy chair, alone, before the living room's crackling fireplace. All her books were sheathed on their shelves. Rose and Hugo slept in Gryffindor Tower. Willoughby and Blue Bear were packed away in the attic with other threadbare memories. Hermione wore white knickers and a blue jumper that was too big for her. Her hair was unbound, wild and long.

Nine months ago, in January, Ron had slipped off a ladder and cracked his neck. Just like that, in an instant that couldn't be undone by any magic, he was dead. Instead of holding her wand, she'd been stirring a pot of spaghetti sauce with a wooden spoon. Everyone said that it had happened too quickly, that there was no way she could have saved him, but the smell of oregano still made her nauseous and probably always would.

She ran her fingers through her bushy mass of hair, static snapping at her skin. Ron had always loved her hair. He had twined strands around his forefinger whenever they'd sat side by side. He had stroked it and pulled it, just the way she liked, when they'd made love. She'd wanted to cut it short for years, but he had always convinced her not to, even when Hugo's lolly got stuck in it again or the wind blew it into Astoria Malfoy's pretty face at the Quidditch World Cup.

"Hermione, Hermione," she whispered. "Let down your hair to me."

She would never cut it now, not if it grew beyond a length of twenty ells.

* * *

**Spring 2019**

Blaise Zabini changed her mind.

Hermione found this odd since they had never spoken in almost thirty years of distant acquaintance. Their only interaction had been a cool glance over the punch bowl at Slughorn's Christmas party sixth year.

Like his mother, Zabini was beautiful, glamorous and enigmatic. He'd been married four times, each time to a wealthy, older woman. Three of his wives had died and left him millions. His first wife, a baroness, had perished from the bite of a rare, poisonous beetle. His second wife, a countess, had fallen out of a gondola and drowned. His third wife, a marchioness, had choked on a dark chocolate truffle. His fourth wife, a duchess, was still breathing and living in Provence. However, since sixth year, the true love of Zabini's life had been Theodore Nott. Zabini – with his shaved head – and Nott – with his dark, Byronic curls – owned the most exclusive hair salon in wizarding London. Its location was secret and Unplottable, appointments were granted by invitation only and it was rumoured that a cut cost more than a year of dragon insurance.

One April day, Hermione left the Hogsmeade Apothecarium, clutching a wooden crate filled with brown glass bottles. Halfway across High Street, the blue sky darkened and cracked open. The sudden storm soaked her within seconds, but she couldn't worry about wet hair, not with such volatile ingredients in hand. She moved as quickly as she dared to stand beneath the dripping eaves of The Three Broomsticks.

A rap inside of the diamond-paned window caught her attention. She turned to see the angular features and white-blond hair of Draco Malfoy. He smiled at her, and she smiled back. They'd become friendly now, if not friends. He taught her children Transfiguration. A moment later, a bang shook the window, and Hermione jumped, her glass bottles rattling dangerously. She saw a large hand, and, above it, the dark, handsome face of Blaise Zabini. He pointed at her and then disappeared. Had he just ordered her to _stay_? She glanced back at Draco, who shrugged.

A shadow fell over Hermione. She looked up as Zabini gripped her chin with his cool fingers. He stared down at her with arresting eyes and turned her head from side to side. He was tall and commanding, dressed in exquisite black robes. Even his voice seemed tall and commanding as he spoke to her for the very first time.

"Signora Weasley."

"What are you doing?" Hermione demanded.

"I will cut your hair," Zabini announced.

It was a declaration, not a question. The rainstorm passed, and rays of light – actual rays of light – cast beams of glowing majesty around Zabini. All that was missing was angel song. Hermione almost laughed. Then a drop of water landed on her forehead with a splat. She blinked and returned to her senses.

"No, thank you. I don't want it cut."

Zabini released her chin and took a step back.

"Why not?" he asked haughtily. When she didn't answer, he narrowed his eyes. Hermione got the impression he was trying to read her mind, and she locked it against him, looking down at her muddy trainers.

_Why not? _

Because Ron had loved her long, wild hair. Because she kept it as a tribute him, even though sometimes the weight of it, the massive obligation of it gave her headaches. She gazed at her reflection in the tavern window, at the thick slab of wet hair hanging down her back. It was already twisting up into curls. She focused beyond her reflection and saw Draco, now angry about something, glaring at Zabini.

"I have my reasons," Hermione answered.

Zabini nodded and took another step back. He reached into an inner pocket of his robes and pulled out a snow-white calling card. It appeared to be blank. He tucked it with care between two of her apothecary bottles. It clanked, and Hermione realized the card was made of some sort of metal.

"The incantation to reveal its secrets is _La Serenissima_," he said. "The charm will only work once. When you're ready, come to me and no one else."

* * *

Draco's hands gripped into fists as Zabini, the prat, sat down next to Theo, his prat boyfriend, The two of them looked out of place in the pub, wearing luxurious robes and drinking the garnet-colored merlot that Madam Rosmerta stocked only for them. As a professor, Draco dressed simply and drank Butterbeer. He did, however, have an incredible haircut thanks to Blaise, his pale fringe falling perfectly over his brow.

"What was that about, Pumpkin?" Theo asked as he stroked a finger down Blaise's sleeve.

"Yes, what _was_ that about, Pumpkin?" Draco snapped. "You upset Hermione. What did you say to her? Why were you touching her?"

Blaise and Theo both turned to him with expressions of surprise, and Draco felt like a bug pinned to velvet. He suddenly thought of Blaise's second wife, the countess, who had collected rare insects. She'd studied their iridescence in a dim room under light and magnification spells while Blaise and Theo had rubbed tanning oil on each other beside the infinity pool.

What had he said to merit their scrutiny? _You upset Hermione… Why were you touching her…_ Oh. They might read something into that. He wouldn't want them to misunderstand. After all, he and Hermione were just acquaintances. Friendly acquaintances.

"I did nothing to upset her," Blaise said, taking a sip of his wine. "She just grieves for her late husband. She doesn't want to cut her hair because he liked it long."

"She told you that?" Draco asked. _Why was Hermione talking to Blaise about her hair?_

"No, you git, it's there in her eyes, for anyone with perception to see. Perhaps, as a widower, I'm more attuned to her distress than you are as a divorced man."

"As if you were distressed by the passing of any of your wives."

"I grieve for them all. Particularly Lenore."

"Because her daughter got the diamonds," Nott pouted.

Theo liked shiny things, especially precious gems. Draco didn't have to wonder what his fellow Slytherin would look like drunk and prancing through a Swiss castle wearing nothing but heaps of diamonds, because he'd already seen it.

"I know Weasley was a cretin," Blaise said. "But how could he not have seen his own wife's remarkable bone structure?"

_Now, he was talking about Hermione's bones?_

"What are you nattering on about?" Draco snapped.

"I'm going to cut her hair," Blaise said.

_Like hell you are!_

When they stared at him again and Zabini actually smiled, Draco realized he'd spoken his thoughts aloud. In horror, he watched Blaise and Theo share a look of mischief and conspiracy. They had just discovered, as he himself had just discovered, that he fancied Hermione Granger.

"Damn it," Draco muttered into his beer.

* * *

In retrospect, it was bloody obvious.

He remembered feeling strangely nervous when Hermione had met with him during breakfast in the Great Hall to talk about Hugo's progress in Transfiguration. He had been mesmerized by how the morning sunlight had brightened strands of her hair to honey gold.

He remembered the immense relief he'd felt when he'd seen her standing at Scorpius' bedside at St. Mungo's. She had descended from the hallowed halls of Research to see his son safely through dragon pox. Overwhelmed, he had pulled her into an impulsive hug, and the soft tickle of her hair against his neck had sent a shiver down his spine.

He remembered feverish dreams of imagined kisses, of the passionate gasp and thrust of sex. Although he had never been able to remember his dream woman's face, he had always remembered her hair, unbound and wild, floating all around him, touching his skin with a thousand, delicate strokes. He had been dreaming of Hermione.

Now that he knew, he must pursue her. And Blaise couldn't cut her hair. Not one, single, beautiful, captivating inch. No one could.

Of course, he would have to take certain steps to ensure that never happened.

* * *

**Summer 2019**

"_La Serenissima_," Hermione said, staring at the white metal card in her hand.

She'd had enough. It was August, and she was hot. The back of her neck was sweaty. And not one, but two strawberry-flavored lollipops were stuck in her hair. They looked like a pair of Luna's bizarre earrings. She was going to have it all cut off. Every, last, single, frizzy, God-forsaken inch!

She'd expected an address to appear on the card. Instead, it began to glow in the sunlight. She barely saw two, golden words form – _Hold On_ - before she felt the sensation of a hook behind her navel, yanking her back into the bright, tumultuous swirl of Portkey travel. Blue sky, white clouds and lightening flashed all around her as she gripped the card tightly. It seemed like she fell through the vortex forever, like Alice down the rabbit hole.

"Is this international?" she muttered.

An instant later, she was blinded by a dazzling light, like sunshine on water. Then she landed, tottering on her feet, in the middle of an impossibly ornate room.

She was surrounded by gold. Golden chandeliers and golden clocks on golden mantles, golden fringe dripping from plush furniture upholstered in rose and gold. The chamber had a soaring ceiling painted with angels and marble columns ringed with cherubs. Hermione walked toward a slice of blue between two velvet curtains. Peering outside, she saw the Grand Canal and the white domes of St. Mark's Basilica.

"Venice?"

"The Palazzo Zabini, Signora Weasley," a deep voice said.

Hermione turned to see a beautiful, brown-haired man dressed in white and gold servant's livery. He had the face of a sculpted Bernini angel.

"His Grace should be here shortly. May I offer you some refreshment while you wait?"

The servant conjured a tall glass of frothy, pink liquid and was gone before Hermione noticed he had never let his gaze rest upon the two, red lollipops stuck to her hair. Perfect service. The drink was sweet and refreshing. She strolled out onto the balcony to take in the strange, peaceful splendour of Venice. A moment later, a nearby door opened and closed. She pulled out her wand, whispered a hasty Severing spell and sliced off a hank of her hair and one lollipop.

"There's a better way to do that."

Hermione turned to see Draco Malfoy striding onto the balcony. Merlin, he looked rather handsome today, possibly even resplendent. Probably because of all that gold framing him and his pale-colored summer robes. As usual, his hair was perfect. She blushed, holding her hairy lollipop and feeling foolish.

"Allow me to help?" he asked.

Hermione nodded and held very still, uncertain of his intentions. Draco pulled out his wand and stepped close, his fingers combing through her hair to take hold of the other lollipop's white stick. He whispered a Sublimation spell, and the sweet rapidly dissolved into the air, releasing the fragrance of strawberries. Through the fruity scent, Hermione smelled Draco's cologne. God, it was wonderful. Probably something obscenely expensive with a French name like _Noblesse_. With a painless tug, Draco pulled the stick out of Hermione's hair before Vanishing it and the lollipop in her hand.

"Wouldn't want anyone brewing trouble with that lock of hair," he said.

"No. Wouldn't want that," she said, remembering her weeks as a cat-girl in second year.

They fell silent, and Hermione wondered why Draco hadn't stepped away. He took the end of her severed hair between his fingertips. When she looked up, he was gazing at her, his grey eyes solemn and beautiful. She wondered madly if he was going to kiss her. She'd never considered such a thing before, not with Draco, not with anyone but Ron. The thought made her heart slam beneath her breast. Below the balcony, a gondolier began to sing a familiar song.

"Is - is that _A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love_?" Hermione asked.

"_Un Calderone Pieno di Caldo, Forte Amore_. The Italians love Celestina Warbeck."

Draco muttered an incantation so low that Hermione couldn't hear it. She watched as her severed hair grew back, the brown tendril curling like a vine well past her waist.

"I think it's a bit long," she said. "But thanks."

"You're welcome." He stepped back without trimming the strand. Turning away, he leaned against the edge of the balcony to look out over the Canal.

"Where's Zabini?" Hermione asked as she moved to stand beside him.

"He's not coming. This is from him." Draco took a rolled parchment from a pocket inside his robes. She unfurled it, marvelling at the elegant script. The letter looked like the page of an illuminated manuscript.

_Dearest Lady,_

_Please forgive my absence. I have reconsidered my offer to cut your hair. I much prefer it long, as should you. As the most influential barber since the Sorceress Delilah, you should take my advice and always keep it in its current, glorious style. Also, although he is a very poor substitute for me, please consider Draco Malfoy your host for as long as you wish to stay at the Palazzo Zabini. Sample the joys, mysteries and sensual delights of Venezia, the Lady Most Serene._

_Sincerely, _

_Blaise Zabini_

Draco watched Hermione as she read. Her skin was radiant in the Venetian light. Her hair was dishevelled, half in a ponytail and half hanging free – a sticky-strawberry mess. She was stunning. He wanted to pull her close and kiss her breathless. He wanted to taste her plump, enticing bottom lip. He wanted to sweep her up into his arms and make love to her in every, single one of Zabini's gaudy, golden rooms.

Instead, he asked, "How about supper and a sunset tour of the city? By gondola, of course. Zabini has a large one. It's practically a barge and is carved with golden cherubs."

"Of course it is."

"Did you know his third wife raced gondolinas? She knew the city as well as any gondolier."

He decided not to reveal that the marchioness' death by dark chocolate truffle had occurred on the very boat they would board tonight. It really was carved with golden cherubs. It had silken cushions and velvet curtains. There would be wine, food, crystal and candlelight. Servants would sing and play violins. Theirs would be a pleasure cruise worthy of Queen Cleopatra. If he gave the order, the gondola's deck would be strewn ankle-deep in red rose petals.

_No_, he thought. That would probably be too much.

"I'll just freshen up first," Hermione said.

As she left the balcony, Draco slid his right hand into his trouser pocket. A lock of her hair, still stuck to a red lollipop, brushed against his fingers. He smiled, wondering if he had time before supper to work his spells.

* * *

The following Monday, at lunch, Hermione met Harry and Ginny Potter at their favorite booth at the Leaky.

"You still have your hair!" Ginny exclaimed. "I thought getting double-fisted by that baby had finally made up your mind."

"Wha-?" Harry choked on his roast beef sandwich.

Hermione sighed. "What Ginny means is that a baby holding two lollipops, one in each hand, stuck both lollipops in my hair on Saturday…"

"Double-fisting," Ginny said, holding up both her fists to illustrate.

"…so I decided to use the card Blaise Zabini gave me in April."

"Tell me two things," Ginny said. "How posh is his salon, and why didn't you get your hair cut?"

Hermione took a long sip of her pear cider before she launched into the entire story. Almost. She told them about Venice, the golden palazzo and Zabini's refusal to cut her hair. She told them about her luxurious gondola ride through the Grand Canal at sunset. She told the city would have sunk into the sea five hundred years ago if not for the secret intervention of its wizarding aristocracy. Draco had told her that story, but she didn't tell them about Draco.

He had been a perfect gentleman, only touching her to assist her in and out of the gondola, despite the fact that the boat was an ornate, floating bed, designed for seduction. Before that moment on the balcony, she'd never thought of Draco as more than a friendly acquaintance. She hadn't been with anyone since Ron - had never been with anyone _but_ Ron. The thought of intimacy with someone else felt foreign and dangerous, like wielding her wand with her left hand instead of her right. But the thought of being intimate with Draco. It also sent a thrill through her.

There had been another moment on the gondola, when she'd been warm and drunk, nestled back against soft pillows and literally floating in a world of beauty and romance. She had gazed at the glow of candlelight on Draco's hair and skin. It made him golden and cast fascinating shadows on the hard angles of his face. How had she never noticed how beautiful his lips were? He had been talking about Zabini's restoration of a tiny Venetian church and how Theo called it a "little jewel box" for the vivid colors inside. He had taken a sip of red wine, then licked his wine-stained lips, and all Hermione could think about was how much she wanted to kiss him. She had almost done it. Almost.

But then she had remembered winters and summers with Ron, cuddling in their cozy bed before the fireplace or on the porch. Sweet, drowsy, sultry moments - gone forever.

_Hermione, Hermione, let down your hair to me._

When a loose strand had grazed his wrist, Draco had gently tucked it behind her ear, and she had pulled away. An hour later, she had left Venice.

"Well," Ginny said. "Now that you've made up your mind about your hair, you'll just have to go to someone else. Zabini isn't the only stylist in the world."

"I don't know. It just doesn't feel right."

"Hermione, I love my brother. I always will, but he died a year and a half ago. I know he liked your hair long, but it's _your_ hair. You don't have to keep it as some sort of shrine to him."

Hermione looked from Ginny to Harry. After Ron's funeral, when everyone else had left the snowy cemetery and Molly had taken Rose and Hugo back to the comfort of the Burrow, Harry and Hermione had stayed at their best friend's grave. They had stayed all night, huddled under the blanket of a Warming charm, talking and crying and being silent and sad. It had reminded her of their bleak Christmas Eve together in Godric's Hollow, standing before the Potters' gravestones.

"Ginny's right," Harry said. "You should cut it if you want to. Especially now that you're being double-fisted by babies."

Hermione laughed so loudly that she slapped her hand over her mouth. An instant later, her laughter became sobs, and tears fell down her cheeks. "I'm sorry," she gasped between her fingers. "I'm so sorry. I don't even know why I'm crying. I mean, it's just _hair_!"

Harry stared at her, frozen, his green eyes wide behind his glasses, but Ginny moved quickly. Trapped inside the booth by Harry, she scrambled right over the table, sending drinks and plates flying, before she dropped awkwardly beside Hermione and pulled her close. Hermione started to sob in earnest. She felt Harry's hands clutching hers. And then Neville was there. And Hannah and Seamus and George and, a moment later, Arthur and Molly. They held her as she cried – as she wailed – in the middle of a crowded pub at lunch time, each friend touching her however they could. Hands on her arms and her back. A head resting against her knee. Someone stroking her damned hair. She didn't realize her anguish and magic had plunged the room into darkness and shaken all the paintings off the walls, not until Ginny told her later.

She took the rest of the day off and, that night, slept with Rose and Hugo on the mahogany bed on the back porch. On Tuesday, she woke up at dawn, determined to cut her hair.

"Mum!" Rose squealed. "How short are you going to cut it?"

"_Very_ short," Hermione said, her eyes twinkling.

"Oh, Merlin! We have to find pictures! Let's go buy magazines!"

"Uh… all right," Hermione answered, bewildered.

An hour later, the future Head Girl of Hogwarts and the Mungo's researcher who had cured spattergroit were giggling over the latest issue of _Short-N-Sassy Cutz_.

Hermione stormed out of the hearth into her living room in a tempest of green flame. She marched through an arched doorway into the kitchen, her long braid whipping behind her. At the kitchen table, Rose looked up from her book, and Hugo looked up from his pet toad, Leonardo McToad.

"No one will cut my hair!" Hermione snapped. "Zabini has issued some sort of edict. Every stylist I go to refuses to touch my hair. I even went to a Muggle salon off Old Compton, and they turned me away. They asked me my name and then they turned me away. Slytherin git! You think I don't have a solution for that?"

Rose and Hugo exchanged a wary look as their mum stalked over to a drawer, rummaged through it and pulled out a pair of silver scissors. She grabbed a handful of her hair and poised the open blades just inches from her scalp. Half a second before she would have cut, the scissors melted. They felt like cold, wet noodles as they oozed over her fingers and dripped onto the floor, forming a puddle of silver goo.

"Kids! Up!"

By the time Hermione was at ready, wand drawn, Rose and Hugo had scrambled on top of the countertops. Leonardo, alone on the kitchen table, croaked. They all stared at the goo as it began to wiggle and make squelching noises. It transformed into a hard, silver figurine of a lion rampant.

"Bloody wanker!" Hermione screamed. Furious, she paced circles around the statue. "You are not the bloody king of bloody hair! How dare you order me about? It's my fucking hair, and I'll fucking cut it if I fucking want to with or without scissors - right now!"

"Mum said _fuck_," Hugo whispered to Rose.

"I know," she whispered back.

"A lot."

"I know."

Brother and sister took each other's hands as the room darkened, and dishes clattered inside the cabinets. A timer shaped like a tiny mushroom hopped along the sink's edge before it tumbled into the basin, buzzing. Hermione held up her braid with one hand. With the other, she lifted her wand high, a shower of white sparks hissing from the tip.

"_Lumos_ _Acinaces_!"

At her command, the wand's sparks brightened and twisted together, forming a dagger of fiery, white light.

"Light Saber!" Hugo translated with a grin. "Mum is wicked!"

With a decisive slash, Hermione swept the beam of sizzling light up through her braid, severing it where the hair began to plait. She gasped as a great weight seemed to lift from her body. She felt light and free, unbound by gravity, dizzy with liberty. She stared down at the limp hair in her hand. It looked like a dead snake. Laughing, she dropped it on the floor. Her children gaped at her head. She didn't care. She didn't care if her hair looked like Harry's after a rough game of Quidditch. It felt wonderful!

As she reached up to touch it, she felt a tingling in her scalp. Then a heavy weight crushed her, pressing her down onto her knees. Her cheek slammed against the kitchen floor, and for a moment, she was blinded by pain. She couldn't lift her head. Were they being attacked?

It took all her strength to open her eyes, and when she did, she was horrified to see that her hair had grown back and that it was still growing. Longer and longer and longer.

Well beyond a length of twenty ells.

* * *

**TO BE CONCLUDED...**

**Reviews are welcomed- thank you!**


	2. Chapter 2

**UNBOUND - CHAPTER TWO**

* * *

"I can't believe you had Granger in the Love Boat and didn't shag her," Theo said.

"That is pathetic," Blaise added. "A cross-eyed hunchback could get shagged in that gondola. What was that cross-eyed hunchback's name, darling?"

"Fenton."

"That's right. Why didn't you have Giuseppe sing _A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love_? Witches love that song."

"Old witches like your wife," Draco snapped.

"Have some respect," Blaise said. "Antoinette made these truffles." The duchess had a sweets obsession, and her favourite treat to make was chocolate truffles.

The three of them lay on lounge chairs beside the sparkling rooftop pool of the Palazzo Zabini - watching the sun set behind the Basilica, eating chocolate and drinking wine. Blaise and Theo both wore white Speedos, while Draco wore black board shorts. Feeling sulky, he ate a truffle and turned onto his stomach to cut the conversation short.

He should have kissed Hermione in the gondola. He almost had. And what's more – she had almost kissed him, too. He'd seen it in her beautiful eyes, a dreamy sort of desire. The whole time he'd talked about Blaise's "jewel box" church, she had stared at his lips. She had leaned closer with each sentence, her hair gleaming in the candlelight. He ached just remembering how lovely she'd looked.

But then Hermione had dropped her gaze and pulled away. She had ended their tour and left Venice within the hour. He didn't know what he'd done wrong, but he had to see her again. He couldn't stop thinking about her or dreaming about her. Her and her long, sexy hair.

Draco smirked, wondering if she had activated his spells yet. He was particularly proud of Melty Scissor Goo. Of course, he'd have to invent a better name than that if he decided to teach it in Advanced Transfiguration.

"Bollocks," he heard Theo say. "That's a Blood Red Howler."

Draco turned onto his side and saw Blaise's cabana boy (who wore nothing but tiny, gold shorts) holding a silver platter. On it sat an ominous, red envelope. When no one moved, the Howler began to tap itself impatiently against the platter.

"Open it," Blaise ordered.

As soon as the cabana boy broke the black seal, the Howler shrieked, "BLAISE ZABINI, YOU BLOODY, STUPID, DIRTY-NAPPIE-AND-HORSE-ARSE SANDWICH!"

"Fuck!" Theo said, tossing aside his now-unappetizing truffle. "It's Ginny Potter. Her Howlers are notorious."

The red envelope and letter transformed into a mouth with pointy, paper teeth. It lunged at Zabini, stopping to hover a mere inch from his nose.

"HOW _DARE_ YOU DO THIS TO HERMIONE, YOU DISEASED DONKEY PRICK!"

"What did you do to Hermione?" Draco shouted. He jumped out of his chair, wand in hand, casting a shadow over Blaise. His blood pumped so hot with anger that his pale chest flushed pink.

"ALL SHE WANTS TO DO IS CUT HER HAIR! WHY WON'T YOU LET HER?"

Oh. Shit.

Blaise smiled and said, "I believe the real question, you diseased donkey prick, is what did _you_ do to Hermione?"

"HER FUCKING HAIR HAS FILLED UP THE KITCHEN AND HALF OF THE LIVING ROOM. SHE CAN'T LIFT HER BLOODY HEAD OFF THE BLOODY FLOOR. DON'T YOU KNOW SHE'S HURTING, YOU ARROGANT, TOFFEE-NOSED, MALODOROUS FUCKWIT?!"

"How can someone be _toffee-nosed_?" Theo asked.

"I don't know," Blaise answered. "But ten points to Gryffindor for the use of _malodorous_ instead of something juvenile like _stinky-arsed_."

Draco didn't hear a word they said. He was too busy panicking. Hermione was hurting? His spell had hurt her? What if her head was literally bloody, as in dripping blood? His heart raced with dread. He'd never meant for anything like this to happen. He had to save her!

"YOU GET OVER HERE RIGHT NOW!"

"Tell me where she is!" Draco screamed at the Howler.

It bellowed out an address in Kent, and he immediately Disapparated. A second later, the paper mouth shrieked "STINKY ARSEHOLE!" and tore itself into a hundred bits of red paper. They floated down onto Blaise's smooth skin, looking like freckles.

"Look," Theo teased. "A Weasley."

Blaise rolled his eyes as his cabana boy grabbed a nearby fan of lavish peacock feathers and fanned the paper away. "How long before you think Draco realizes he's gone into the fray barefoot and shirtless?"

"Damn," Theo muttered. "Now I _really_ wish he'd worn Speedos."

* * *

"Professor Malfoy is almost naked," Hugo whispered to Rose.

"I know," she whispered back.

A minute ago, their Transfiguration professor had appeared near the cottage's gate, wearing nothing but black swim trunks. He'd quickly scanned the crowd that Mum had ordered out of the house, about fifteen family members and close friends. Then he'd dashed for the front door only to be Petrified by Aunt Ginny. Now, he lay on his back in a flower bed of bright, gerbera daisies beside Leonardo McToad.

"Where's Zabini?" Aunt Ginny demanded, standing over him. With a flick of her wand, she allowed him to move the muscles he needed to talk.

"Where's Hermione?" he yelled. "I have to see her! Let me go! "

"No. Where is Zabini?"

At that point, Professor Malfoy began to call himself a whole string of bad names including a dirty-nappie-and-horse-arse sandwich, a diseased donkey prick and an arrogant, toffee-nosed, malodorous fuckwit. Rose and Hugo exchanged a look, eyes wide. After a few, more quietly spoken words, Aunt Ginny released the professor from her spell, and he ran into the cottage.

"How can someone be _toffee-nosed_?" Hugo whispered to Rose.

"I don't know," she whispered back.

* * *

Draco Malfoy felt like he'd stumbled into a fairy tale. Hermione's little cottage was as sweet and cozy as a kitten in a hand-knitted jumper. He wouldn't have thought it of her. There was a stone fireplace, squashy furniture draped with patchwork quilts and books everywhere. The walls were decorated with family photographs and magical, cross-stitched scenes of a forest in all four seasons. A bear wandered through Winter.

Also lending to the fairy tale air of the cottage was the fact that it had been overrun by great, swelling waves of enchanted hair.

It looked like a pretty version of Devil's Snare, an enormous mass of tumbling, brown, vine-like ringlets. Although Draco wasn't sure if the word _ringlets_ could apply to spiral curls thicker than tree trunks. The hair covered half the living room, spilling like roots from an arched doorway that presumably led to the kitchen.

"Hermione!"

He heard a muffled sound.

"I'm coming!"

Draco plunged through the arched doorway and was immediately engulfed in soft, dark hair. It caressed every inch of his exposed skin with feathery strokes as he walked through it. Shit! He was only wearing swim trunks. Thank God Theo hadn't talked him into Speedos. As he slowly waded through the hair, it tickled his face and slid across his chest and twined around his ankles. It slithered wickedly against his sensitive stomach. He valiantly tried to ignore the arousal twisting inside him.

Soon, the dark mass subtly changed color, brightening with strands of honey gold. His hands were free, then his face. He took a deep breath and stepped out into the tiny space of the kitchen that hadn't been consumed.

"Don't step on me," a sad voice said at his feet.

Draco looked down to see Hermione lying on her stomach on the floor. One of her cheeks rested against the tile. Unable to move her head, she tried – unsuccessfully - to gaze up at him with one eye. He could see a blue-clad arm and a hand, but the rest of her body was hidden beneath mountains of hair. Her fingers rested on a silver figurine of a rearing lion.

Draco dropped to his knees and asked urgently, "Hermione, are you hurt?"

"No."

"Are you sure? Ginny's Howler said your bloody head was on the bloody floor. I was afraid she had meant that literally."

"No, she was just cursing. I can't lift my head, but I'm in no real pain."

"What do you mean _no real pain_?"

"I'm just a bit crushed and uncomfortable," she said. "And my neck's sore."

"I'm sorry," Draco whispered. He tucked a lock of Hermione's hair behind her ear, and she laughed.

"What?"

"That's rather like trying to empty the sea with a teaspoon," she said.

"I suppose," he answered, smiling. He stroked her hair again and then the side of her neck, touching her quickening pulse.

"Not that I'm not happy to see you, Draco," Hermione said. "I truly am. But I need Zabini. Where is he?"

Draco shifted until his weight rested one hand and a hip. He lowered himself down until he lay on the floor, his cheek resting against the cool tile. Hermione's hair covered them both like a blanket, and the lion statue stood between them. Draco stared into her eyes.

"Are you… you're not wearing a shirt," she stuttered, her visible cheek flushing red.

"Swim trunks. And you don't need Zabini. You need me. _Finite Incantatem_." Draco tapped his wand against the lion's head. Hermione gasped when the statue melted into a puddle of silvery goo. A moment later, it re-formed into a pair of scissors.

"None of us could do that," she exclaimed. "How did you..."

He confirmed her suspicions. "The counter-spell only obeys the maker of the spell."

"Draco."

The disappointment in her voice and her eyes filled him with shame. He looked away as he spoke. "The spell was never meant to grow your hair this long, just back to its normal length. Something went wrong."

"I was angry when I cut it."

"You think some rogue magic affected the spell's strength."

"Yes," Hermione said. "Draco, why did you do it?"

He didn't know where to begin. How could he explain such foolishness? Wistful, he remembered their sunset tour of Venice by gondola. The wine and the music, the conversation by candlelight - all set against the shadow and shimmer of the romantic water city. That would have been the perfect moment to tell Hermione how he felt. The perfect moment to kiss her. Now, they lay on a kitchen floor, trapped beneath a massive pile of hair. He was the villain of this tale. And he was wearing swim trunks. Realizing clever or elegant words would be inappropriate, he looked at Hermione and declared himself with simplicity and truth.

"I fancy you. I realized it that day in Hogsmeade. And I fancy your hair. I didn't want you to cut it off."

Hermione's eyes widened. She stared at Draco with an unsettling intensity. In the silence between them, he was certain she could hear the wild beating of his heart. A moment later, she gazed down at her hair, running her fingers through the strands.

"Ron fancied my hair, too," she said softly. "He would laugh his arse off if he could see that I'd been transformed into Rapunzel."

_Damn Blaise_, Draco thought. He'd been right from the beginning. Hermione had kept her hair long because Weasley had liked it that way. She hadn't been able to let go him. And when she had finally been ready – to cut her hair, to shed her grief and move on - Draco had prevented her over and over again.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'll cut it now." He picked up the scissors.

"No, don't! Wait!" Hermione clutched the back of his hand. Her skin was hot.

"It won't grow back," Draco promised. "Remember, the counter-spell obeys the maker of the spell."

"I know that. I just… Please, I just want you to wait."

Somewhere, hidden within the great swath of Hermione's hair, Draco heard the kitchen clock ticking. He didn't count the seconds. He had no idea how much time passed within the peace of their snug cocoon. Hermione closed her eyes. Her fingers stroked her hair. Her lips moved silently, and once, she whispered words from a fairy tale.

"_Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair to me._"

Draco watched her quietly, transfixed by the private ritual she was enacting. It was a ceremony of memory and deep emotion, the gentle banishment of a loving and well-loved ghost. She was saying goodbye.

"All right," she whispered. She opened her eyes, tears glittering on her lashes. She pulled a section of her hair taut. "I don't care how it looks. Just cut it all off."

"It won't look good, but Zabini will fix it," Draco said as he rose to his knees. He opened the scissors' silver blades and positioned them with care.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Ready," Hermione answered with resolve.

The blades closed with a forceful snap.

* * *

Draco hadn't seen Hermione since he'd cut off her enchanted hair a week ago. A jubilant crowd of her family and friends had rushed into the cottage. Hugo had accurately described her hair as a porcupine sitting on top of her head. Only Molly Weasley had taken the time to greet Draco, placing a red afghan over his bare shoulders and giving him a chocolate cupcake.

"I'll send for Zabini immediately," he'd said before Disapparating.

He had hoped he might hear from Hermione, but no word came. There were no photos of her new haircut in the papers, so she hadn't been out in public. Where was she? Scorpius spent Augusts with Astoria, so Draco was alone in the Manor. Alone and restless. When he couldn't stand it any longer, he owled Zabini. His reply was an invitation. Blaise and Theo were in Aix en Provence until Sunday to celebrate the launch of the duchess' new dessert cookbook.

Truffles… Yes, that was exactly what he wanted. To stuff his gob with dozens of decadent truffles and drink wine and shag some hot, French stranger and forget about Hermione Granger. She obviously wanted nothing to do with the pathetic git who fancied her and had made an arse of himself over her hair. He _was_ a diseased donkey dick. He would leave for Provence in the morning.

That evening at sunset, he received an owl from Minerva.

_Draco,_

_Horace has retired, and I am proud to appoint you as the new Head of Slytherin House. As such, you are entitled to Horace's former quarters and office should you…"_

Draco stuffed the letter in his pocket, Summoned his Nimbus and immediately Apparated outside the gates of Hogwarts. Then he ran through the wards, jumped onto his broom and flew straight up to the sixth floor balcony of Slughorn's… of _his_ office. The palatial space with its high ceilings and grand columns was highly coveted. It was easily five times the size of Draco's former office in the dungeons. He wouldn't put it past his colleagues, especially Padma, to swoop in and cast enchantments to steal it from him. He cast his own enchantments, scribbling his wand in the air, to the north, south, east and west. When he felt the warmth of ownership flow over his skin, he walked out onto his balcony to enjoy his view.

The window in his dungeon office was basically a porthole – a murky, green circle visited infrequently by curious fish. The view from the sixth floor was far superior – a sprawling vista of the Hogwarts grounds, the Forbidden Forest and the purple mountains beyond. He could even see a wedge of the Black Lake, sparkling with warm reflections of the setting sun.

A woman in a white sundress sat beside the lake. She was reading a book and sat on a patchwork quilt. Her hair was brown and short. _Very_ short.

Draco smiled, jumped on his broom again and flew down toward Hermione. Whatever book sat in her lap engrossed her completely. As she leaned over it, reading, he hovered ridiculously close – close enough to see the faint freckles on her shoulders. Undetected, he studied the back of her new haircut.

Hermione had less hair than him now. How was that even possible? It lay sleek against the curve of her skull, the rich brown burnished honey gold by the sun. The longest strands ended at the top of her spine in a downward point. His eyes followed the beguiling, invisible line of this arrow, down the nape of her slender neck and the graceful slope of her back. He glimpsed the barest hint of the wings of her shoulder blades above her white linen dress. Had she always had such creamy, tempting skin? He wanted stroked his fingertips down the ripple of her vertebrae. He wanted to kiss the sweet, vulnerable spots behind her ears. His Nimbus grew uncomfortable. When he shifted, he veered to the right, and his shadow fell over Hermione.

She turned and looked up at him, and he nearly fell off his broom.

He'd thought Hermione was beautiful before with her dark eyes and wild hair. But now, he realized that the hair he had adored had acted as a veil and a distraction. With just a few, glossy curls for fringe and the rest of her short hair swept over her ears, there was nothing to draw attention from Hermione's face, and it was an exquisite face.

_Damn Blaise_. He'd been right from the beginning again. Hermione _did_ have remarkable bone structure. Her eyes seemed twice as large now, her brows finely arched above them. He let his gaze travel down her swan's neck and along the shadows of her collarbones and over the curves of her shoulders, utterly seduced by her luminous skin.

Great. Now, he had a skin fetish. What was _wrong_ with him?

"Hello," Hermione said.

"Hello," Draco answered, still hovering above her.

"So, do you like it?" she asked, touching her hair.

"I do. You're..." Draco cleared his throat, feeling daft. "It's smashing. Looks much less like a porcupine now. What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to see you."

Her simple statement stunned Draco. Then a fierce happiness gripped him. He took a moment to compose himself, lowering his broom to the ground and dismounting. Uncertain, he stood awkwardly next to Hermione. She closed her book and set it aside. The word _Venezia_ was printed in florid, gold script on the green cover.

"Minvera told me about your appointment to Head of Slytherin," she said, standing to face him. "Congratulations. She also told me about your new office. I knew you'd be here to claim it before someone stole it."

"All mine now."

"Good."

After a long pause, Draco asked, "Why did you want to see me?"

"I want to invite you to supper."

"I've already eaten." Stupid git! "But I could eat again."

"No need for that. How about dessert? I know the perfect place. It's elegant, luxurious. Romantic."

Draco's instincts perked up at the slight pause in Hermione's phrasing. He looked at her, trying to gauge her intent. She met his eyes boldly. When her lips parted slightly, he stared at them, and she smiled and turned away. She folded her quilt and then Shrunk both it and her book to the size of tarot cards before sliding them into a pocket at her hip.

"Shouldn't we change clothes if this place is so elegant, luxurious… and romantic?" he asked. The white linen of her dress was rumpled, and he wore casual robes.

"Not at all. It's also fairly private."

Hermione slipped a snow-white, metal card out of another pocket and held it out between them. Draco smiled. He gripped one, cool corner of Zabini's card between his thumb and forefinger and remained silent. He didn't want to disturb the air around them, which suddenly seemed filled with the most delicate and wondrous sense of promise.

"_La Serenissima_," Hermione said.

The card began to glow, and golden words appeared on it.

_Hold On_.

Draco dropped his broom and wrapped his free arm around Hermione's waist, pulling her close.

Hermione's breath caught as Draco embraced her and smiled down at her. She placed her free hand on his hard bicep, and a lovely curl of arousal twined all through her body. At the same time, a sensation like a hook tugged behind her navel. She felt light and free, unbound by gravity or grief, dizzy with liberty and hope.

And then the Portkey swept them up into its bright, tumultuous swirl.

**THE END**

* * *

**Ending Author's Notes:**

Credit goes to the Brothers Grimm for "Rapunzel" and to Monty Python's Flying Circus for Ginny's "toffee-nosed" and "malodorous" insults. The "little jewel box" church in Venice was inspired by the Santa Maria dei Miracoli. I have not been to Venice yet but remember this church and the story of its ten-year restoration from John Berendt's book, "The City of Falling Angels".

**Thank you for reading - reviews are welcomed! :)**


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